late night poem

late night
early morning
(2am)

a bottle of beer
the sounds of
'Trane & Monk
spill out of my
radio speakers

the light from
a fat white candle
flickers as a
soft subtle winter
breeze blows
through my opened
window

& my cat watches the
shadows dance
on the wall

DWC

waiting

part i

there is no wish like
the wish for people

no disappointment
like those who never come

like christmas, years ago,
waiting for a knock at the door

"he'll be there around 1"
they said to me

"make sure you're home"

and so i waited for the knock
and opened my door

not to a man, but a mattress,
a gift without presence

(the irony of all cruel
ironies)

part ii
and i think about that now,
the disappointment,

seeing you last night
in the middle of sleep:

coming home from home
to spend our holy day

(the new year)

together

i wake up on that same,
once new mattress

alone

(the irony of my
ironies)

still waiting for you

part iii

bleary-eyed
i reach for my glasses

and wait for the world

to focus

in

i have waited my life away

Ode to Science

Every time I count my coins
and roll them into fodder
some are too dirty to spill through the modern counter
I take them to the kitchen
and mix them in a jar
of vinegar and baking soda
and I am transcended
science class
fourth grade
spectacular and naive
homemade bombs in a jar

why the mustard just blew up all over my breakfast

I don't
know, something
about
science.

Fool Moon Solstice

On the shortest day of the year
and the longest night
under a luminous ball of quicksilver and secrets
two old lovers escape to the edges of the earth
Where dolphin pray and crustaceans gather to listen in the waves
She is feverish and mourn-full, the darkness always does this to her
He is taken by the sound of the dolphins, the crashing of the waves
He throws a line into the breakers and tries to hold on,
to the edge of the earth
She undresses under the veil of darkness
and like a slippery skate sails into the song of the dolphin
naked and numb
unseen

What the boy said

This is the song they taught us -

I honor the fast and my hair is
dark. When I am old enough my beard
Will sleep on my chest. Mother cooks bread
in the morning and stew in the evening.
Father does not drink or smoke.
All my brothers have done as they were told.
All my sisters will have many children.
I visit my uncles in the spring.

I lean numbers from school and
words from the book.

I honor the fast and my hair is
dark. Follow the road out
of town and past the wells. Go beyond the
date palms. On the left is the plot where they
dry dates. Turn there. Over the
hills is the place of the Godless men.
I will know the place when I
see it. Take the heavy car to the gate
and God will be with me.

I learn numbers from school and
words from the book.

I honor the fast and my hair is
dark. God will keep me.
There will be no pain. Do not
have fears. I do not do this for me;
it is for God and the world.
I will gaze upon the face of God
eternally. My people will sing verses
about me. The men will mourn me and the
women will lament me. I will sit on the
eternal side of God, the place without
numbers or words.

responding to the girl from the galaxy

I would say and you
would know that
away's the place to
go. fasten the
fastens on your coat. just think -
all the other places
you could sip warm water
and blow your breath across the surface.
we
blow across the surface.
we
are snow that
doesn't stick
to other snow.
the
most plentiful kind.


but without sticking,
never know.

then another season
with its weather. all
the growing things will
come back.
the giant things will
show their greens

while we
wait in
another hemisphere.

now we have forgotten them; then
they us. but
this place is so small
we can do nothing but follow,

and trail.

it's over coat

part i
listen, i remember the stories:
the kids scuttling up snow-spotted
hills,

barefoot,

slipping through the mud
where cold had turned to
slush.

silent,

he carried them to the hospital
where doctors trimmed
away

dead toes.

part ii
but i am cold now too
sheltered as i am in this
compress

of steel

bare legs and all
i feel sick some days
ashamed

others

shivering when behind
me hangs all that's required
to button up

and walk away

the truth from

hey
I haven't said anything
lately because
I got a dog and
his name
is Rummy.
Things
were rough
a little now it's
better. Not
because the
dog, just
because it's better.

And I
tried to rearrange my
life. You do
that every so
often or
you don't.
The computer is out of the cold
room and somewhere
accessible. So I will
reappear more here.
And maybe where you are when I
have time.

There was ice outside today and the light from the
lights spread and cracked. The
bricks were slick.

I never wrote more
poems about my trip to
see the girl we burned.
It's
still tied up in my
head.

I am very afraid that
Rummy will be the
best dog I have ever
had. Two previous dogs
saved my life. Once literally
and the other actually.
I am afraid to think
it, but it may be true.

support

in my ear
a voice keeps reciting
this poem

monotone like a
mantra

"we are still experiencing
heavy call
volume.

we apologize for the
inconvenience.

you may find the
information you need
on our web site.

please continue to
hold for the
next available agent."

winter, almost

a dire prognosis

like a terminal disease

waiting for the snow

in memory of hayden carruth (to honor stacy)

stacy's "best poem ever" reminded me of this
gem by hayden:

"the last poem in the world"

would i write it
if i could?

you bet your glitzy
ass i would!

all over the world

been all over the world
today,

all over the world, never even
left town,

the holiday season, too much
traffic on the road,

wouldn't want to risk an accident
(especially if you've had a little
something to drink).

got an email from a friend in
mexico,

drew me right in with his
descriptions of

warmth and strangeness and
senoritas and
possibilities.

that's somewhere else.

does that count?

Mole Skin Musings on Work, a Short Poem

blank stare
wide eyed indifference
forced exhuberance

DWC

About me because I can't talk about her.

I had six days in one day and am trying to compress it down. I think it'll probably boil down into 2-3 more poems. wanted to make it one long one, but it's late and the day's not over yet. there's some good stuff, but I don't want to blow it. I've probably already fucking wrecked it. welcome rick.


All day my
shoulders seemed much thinner. I
cast less shadow. I
disappeared in
shady places.
I got drunk as I could off
$30 in a fake Mexican
restaurant. I took the
four lane to the two lane and
pissed in 2 cornfields and at
the edge
of one cemetery. Passed
the last grain trucks of
the season. Found my way
to Winamac through highways and
towns I don't know (still pretty
drunk). Not to say that
I'm proud. Just trying to
keep up with the
terrible everywhere.
I think I was still on the
clock. Drove past
a wholesaler I bought
impatiens off ten
years ago. To find what
in Winamac waiting
for me?
Last week a boy
took an overdose
in my friend's house. They
talk like I was
supposed to save
the kid.
He's still not buried.

Daylight savings. It's dark
here at six. I
don't understand what
we're saving the light for.

brief introduction

a blog for poets
awesome possibilities
i'll try to fit in

haiku seasonal

i

grey heavy wet clouds
cold damp wind cuts through my soul
glasses fog with rain

ii

leaves become colored
bright against the gun metal sky
they crunch as i walk

iii

time slows down falls back
pumpkins decorate porches
little ghosts spook me

DWC

blue skies for cold days

part i
this city is alive
with the day of
the dead

i think

watching from
two stories
up:

a princess and a witch
hold hands to cross
the street

(having no
part in old fairy
tales)

joining a group
of ghouls and
presidents and
superheroes

to a similar
end

part ii
but it is autumn
now and winter
hereafter

i think

there will be
blue skies for
cold days

and radiators that
hiss like spring
rainstorms

to bookend the
day

was shalott better
than this? i wonder,
standing to take
one long, last
look out of the
window —

and close the
blinds

an octopus in a jar

you outta dig this, thirdworst.

It is a funny thing because it
doesn't shake when you
shake but it sloshes and
wriggles in the jar.

Do they always look angry? asked
the kid.
Well, the thing is... trailed off the mister.

But the long short of it is that
they're like mice - they can
get into anything.
The one in the jar had
crawled through an opening smaller
than a quarter.
Stretched out, it was over
six foot long. They're
supposed to be intelligent, too.
Always wondering,
how did I get myself into this?

And I guess they see well.
Maybe they're more like
us. We can change colors.
I'm in my green shirt, and
look at all this ink.

ds

Re: after I read about somebody thinking something

If you would take any person in
any moment and
picture or paint from
it,

all it might do
is mislead.

We shoot un-
happy faces between
happy ones.
I look at
women when I'm
looking at cars.
Any moment might
not be the minute.
No minute's an hour.

We move so fast I
cannot keep up. I
Cannot keep with
nothing.

Does not surrender its
spinning: the world.
I see what you saw.
All the people in
all the pictures have
a motive that's free
from guess, and
far from know.

ds

today and in 5 years

because someone else said it's cold, it's
cold. socks rolled up. first
smells of the furnace burning from
the basement. empty treelimbs
scrape the siding. I
am inside, but will
have to mow one last time
if the rain breaks.
maybe it won't
break
until May, then
will rain it's own
rain, but to be
followed by warm, then
cool, then warm,
then
cool.

ds

side

so bad that I dreamed you died last night
so bad that I dreamed you died last night
and sat watching television in
another room. this is all
in my head again and again.

come back from Florida.
I like alone but can't stand it anymore.
can you put your head in an electric oven?
these are the things I think for days on end.

ds

IF

IF
I DIDN'T CARE
WHAT YOU MIGHT THINK
I'D TELL YOU THE TRUTH...
AN ABDUCTION
OF THE THIRD KIND
AND IT'S NOT WHAT YOU THINK
NOT WHAT YOU'D SURMISE
I DON'T CARE
WHO YOU ARE
NOW LEAVE ME ALONE...

IF YOU DARE

maybe didn't mean it that way...

But now to
lift
the mood a
little, I
think I'll
read about
the
Battle of
Stalingrad.

ds

A ghost taught me to speak in '96.

I'm not sure which is quicker - a trot or
canter, but either has outpaced the
pace here. Gin
rolls uphill quicker.

Me, I'm just waiting for my sleeping pills to
kick in. So... write words
about words. Spend all day making
adjectives into nouns. small small.

We ate the simplest soup of potatoes cabbage and
kielbasa after we got
drunk making it. The dumplings were
very good.

I can tell what you are reading and
why you sound like you do. Stay away.
People bury themselves with themselves.
If I were meaner I would say it in a
different way. But I will do it.
Find elsewhere.
In the kindest way, find elsewhere.
It looks different. Don't know it.
If I were paranoid that's all I would be, and
only meant us when I said we.

ds

entangled

it won't be long now till it's over:
history is here, and with it those
images we failed to erase

it does us no good to repeat them

but we try all the same,
talking circles into the evening
until there is nothing left but to

stretch our toes, one around the other,
and stand to walk away

old leaves

the pole arrived today, weeks
after the season is over. i shake
the box and sense somewhere between the
crinkled edges that there will
be no more camping for months —
maybe years. but i have this spare
pole now to replace the one that
rotted in our hands near devil's lake,
do you remember?

there were always devils between us.

like that first time you shook your
tent in front of me and
all those old leaves came
tumbling out

apres midi

your body full of such beautiful, but
you are away. I count
four states and many rivers between
us. You said you would be two
weeks. It is a month. The
hummingbirds have left here to
fly to you. In their place is only wind.
Brown leaves swirl in the corners outside the
house. They anticipate the snow. Please,

fly back before autumn is over and we have
not walked through the park on the way
to quiet banks.

ds

shamba

no mysteries.
everything in the open
and reaching

the rattle moving in the middle of dark.
shook shook.
the cars whisper past.

shook shook.

ds

solitude brought

its one of those cold
early fall days
the sun tries to give
light through thick
grey cloud cover
succeeding but then
failing

somewhere out there
i hear someone doing
the last lawn mow
of the year

here's to the optimist

i've been watching my cats
chase each other all
morning the little white
one chases
the big grey one
and then vice versa
their feet sound like
small concrete shoes
across the linoleum
of the kitchen floor

those are the only
sounds here

those and the tap tap
of computer keys

DWC

sooooo...

so having no blog of my own from which to pontificate likes/dislikes and feelings/not feelings, I am appropriating space set aside for my lame poetry to otherwise open my lame mind. I cannot sleep and am unpoetic.

reason: one of the ladies that lives in a group home I oversee passed away this afternoon. kind of suddenly. not neglect. pneumonia.

I'm shook. I don't want a drink.

so for the next indeterminable amount of time, my job will be in the shade of this. housemates, staff, other residents on the mope. I'm already on the mope.

she wasn't much older than me, or anyone else.

our big Halloween party is in a week. I think I'll get a mask.

ds

can't ssss

misspellings are meant

no memory no memory, the cottage
floor. full of the past.
wine all over me.
absolute and alone. is it
moonlight or sunlight? the windows
maybe are open.
the bridge creeks across the river, but
no one is on it.
everybody's sent away. the
radio is sullen and will not answer
when the dial swings.

I sent you away from here. you
left with glad and stomped across the
river. your brother threatened me at
the grocery store. I don't care.
I will be here on the floor.

fall swoops in and the birds leave.
ice crept over ice. wind smells like cold.
I don't want anyone here.
this is the first winter here.

I will not leave. uninterested
in history's ideas
for what comes and what has
found its small place.


ds

Best Poem Ever

Posted on Life Is Art.Sunday, September 30, 2007
Best Poem Ever

As I lay in my bed, with my eyes closed
As I am drifting off to sleep
I compose the most beautiful poems in my head
I assure myself I will remember them
and write them down on paper in the morning
But I never remember them, unlike my dreams
Last night
I wrote the best poem ever, in my head
my lovely little head

sometimes bad looks different

Evening and Slow


I will tell you of the street night and
Peace - late after a storm, and haze on
The corners. The car strolls from
Lamp to lamp. Meets no traffic.
Night’s gotten cool but still humid.
There’s a breeze and a cross
Breeze. I have dimmed all the
Dash lights to nothing. Fog lights duck into
The roadsides and sidewalks and yards.
I see no fences; will not escort alleys.

The beers open themselves. They siss and
Glugg cool and cold. And disappear without alarm.
I am risking everything in the safest way.
The streets must be seen. They are sharing their
Joy with me. It makes me a criminal. The
World only opens sometimes. And now it’s open,
Asleep and alive.

There must be day and night.
Each carries invisible stillness and slow. Sunlight
Shows daylight and everything glow.
Night shows the insides of things.
Tonight is time between the two. Both
There and not there are on the yards and sidewalks.
The whole world opens and receives and gives. There is
Shade in the pole of the street lamp.

Then home calls through haze to come home. The last thing I
Saw was a small boy with a small fire fishing
On the dark bank in the park.

ds

me and me

Details of the Wonder

Something sharp moved in the trees, and I
Knew the easiness was gone from the
Morning. It was time for the end of the quiet.
I leveled off the bore; made adjustments for wind and distance.
The hooves made
Small sounds.

There was a giant sound.

I do not care for the details
Of the thing. We were fed for
Several days. Square meals.
Then we moved down to the river, for
A week of quiet fishing, without liquor, or women,
Or any of the other small worries.

dsds

This one has really been a favorite of mine for a while now, sorry it's not new

The Glare of the Sun on the Water

Momma don't afford us a
Babysitter, but in the summer she
Lets us a pass to O’Connors
Pool. She is nice.
I hold Cody’s
Hand when we cross Washington, and
Ninth, and Huntington. He barks
At the chained-up dogs. I
Tell him its mean.
I worry about him.
I worry about him when I
Go to the girl’s room and
He changes in the
Boy’s room. There’s older boys in there
And they’re mean. We
Meet outside the
Snackbar and find a place to
Put our towels.

The water is warm, and alive. If you
Go under you can hear the
Kicking and splashing. I can’t
Open my eyes underwater, but
Cody can and he says it’s cool. I jump
Off the middle diving board, and sometimes
The short one. They’re both too
High for Cody. He watches
Me dive. I watch him do
Cannon-balls by the ladder.
It’s like the water
Swallows him up. He
Comes back up all
Smiley and blinking.
He kicks with his arms.

Today Cody got in a fight with
Russel. They used to be
Friends but they aren’t anymore.
Russel’s mean. And the lifeguard’s mean.
She made Cody go home. He was
Crying. I walked him through the
Girls room so nobody would see.
Cody didn’t bark at the chained-up
Dogs. He was nice. I held his
Hand across Huntington and Ninth
And Washington, and down the
Sidewalks too.

When we got home Irving was
Awake and smoking and watching TV.
He was mad. He don’t like us
There. Cody tried to tell him what
Happened, and I said it wasn’t his
Fault. Irving didn’t listen.

Irving’s not nice, and he’s
Worse than mean. I don’t know
What he done. Cody cried.
And Irving wouldn’t let
Mommy near him. I snuck in his
Room after everybody was
Asleep and Cody was quiet.
He was so cold. I whispered that
Everything would be alright tomorrow.
That I wouldn’t let
Russel or Irving near him, that I’d watch his
Cannon-ball, that we could
Split a coke.

The next morning they wouldn’t let me
Go to the pool. They said something
Happened, but wouldn’t tell me what it was.
The lady, Mrs. Caston, said
We had to go. We drove down Washington,
And Ninth, then Columbian, then Lincoln.
Then a whole bunch of streets
I don’t know. I tried to tell her that the
Car was big and there was room in back
For Cody. She really didn’t say
Much, but I think she was nice.
I think she wanted to say more.

The ride was quiet, and long.
I thought of the water, and the
Anxious hands breaking the still.

ds

when you're trying to train yourself to write more often and do manage to write but not so well.

you know, I used to sit awake at three a.m. with mouthfulls of poems that I didn't write down. then you wake up terribly old. anyway...

The Face of the Scepter - How Things are Made

I will not regard you, giant, as
A giant. I do not give, and
Will not give you the rivers that
Whisper across our land. My
Tribe is small, but my
Brothers have married well.
You will find nothing here.
Go while my mind is soft.
If you stay a thousand blades are
In the wheat. They will
Meet you. There is nothing here for you.

When you have left, I will send my
Sisters back into the fields, and
My uncles will join me
Under this roof. We will call
You a man of judgement. You
Will have my consent. I will have
Your olives at
The end of the season.

later

ds

evening coda

our bodies, and
now we are in our place.
The evening will
please us. Feel
the warm in the air.

I drank from a bottle of water, then
you drank from the bottle. It
was hot today and dust was
in the air. You
looked like you were looking through the
clouds. You
saw something. I cannot remember
what you
say it was.

Now I am all
tired, and have wiped the
sweat off my face. It is
late. The yellow
moon is over the
west and will go
leaving night
sounds curled under the fence curling under.
I love



ds

dearest third worst - response to your latest blog entry

I notice how well
you create people's lives
from
their face or
something you see in
their eyes. What
you wonder and what you
create. The difference (I think) between us
is you start in
real and drift to imagine. I
start somewhere else and have
less questions. I know less also; only
be.

Your town is three or four hours from mine.
The road is
made of kilometers.
I am afraid of your town, but only
because I have been there. This town
has people. I drink them. They sell me things
and smile or don't.


The world is the same everywhere. We
make our worlds from the world. Then talk
about it somewhere else.

It is time I come to bed. It is tired here.
In the morning
we will carve the earth and
form it into the
shape of
lives.

Just In Case You Thought You Were Special

I remember when I use to want to be a writer. Dreams of Pulitzer prizes danced in my head.

But then I got older, and I started reading the stuff you write.

So I burned all my notebooks, all my hopes and dreams.

And then I realized you were quoting Flaubert and T.S. Elliot.

That you did not in fact write that yourself.

Damn it.

The Missing Of Friends Part I

shook out a couple of nights ago

Where Rise Fell

Cutting between I went left or
Right. I am unsure. I went a
Place between that was not
Straight. There was water and woods.
The mayflies had hatched
And all the kinds of fish were
Kissing them
From the surface. I sat under a
Tall willow and watched the fish
Rise and mayflies fall.
I watched the world reunite
Between right and left.
Sat there in the whole.
Glimpsing where it was gone.

take care - ds

new for today, 8/something

the evening is not
lonely. it's just I'm day and
you're night - still apart.

we walked up and down
the stairs together, living
in the same tall space.

I saw a thousand
mayflies, but lost them trying
to count silver wings.

every time a boat
swam by I worried the waves
would swamp my city.

I live here, and so
does everyone else. We try
all day to forget.

I did not wave back
because my arms were full of
rain. I am sorry.

almost never get
scared; we're cradling the end.
it's more important.

love all -

ds

Bottom of the Well

Some days she feels paint
others; words and dreams
And her slave driving boss makes her work in the kitchen, faster, faster
it is a holiday
yet her little sons are still in school
in a panic she realizes
she is very very late
she runs to the school, to the principals office
heart pounding
Administrators look down their noses at her
She is ashamed
the boys were crying she is told
-YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND she shouts as she grabs the telephone from the receptionists desk
-THE LITTLE ONE IS ONLY THIS BIG
she indicates he comes up to her hip, when he is standing
where did they go,did somebody steal them?
She fears the worst

The boys are in a white clapboard shack
abandoned and still, by the river's edge
Lost boys, abandoned
as usual, alone, together

She floats through the rooms over dirty hardwood floors
discarded cracker boxes litter the room
then outside
to find
The little one is sleeping on the roadside
in the grass
she nudges him repeatedly
-This is not safe

they return to the shack and lie down by the window
background of moonlight and darkness
still waters mirror the sky
-It is so peaceful here, she says to the young ones in her arms

-Yes

And they are walking collecting treasures
feathers, rocks and leaves

As they approach the overgrown walkway to the clapboard house
She sees him
The man is the Authority
Severe eyes, warm rust colored beard, soft voice
He says, in a whisper,
-Are you coming in here?
he is trying to decipher whether or not she is the one
She pretends to live somewhere else
to be someone else
someone other than the irresponsible mother she knows herself to be
-We are just going for a walk
calm voice, poker face
-Then why do you look so afraid?
-Perhaps you misunderstand me
-Perhaps

Of Paint & Poetry

A few years ago I read a collection of poetry written by disadvantaged children.

Some of them were quite good, which just goes to show that writing poetry isn't necessarily a matter of age; it's a matter of life experiences. And some 10-year-olds have seen enough tragedy to last a lifetime.

There was one in particular that stood out to me: a girl has made a mess with a bucket of paint. And so an attempt to help her mother all but precipitates an anxiety attack as she tries to clean up; not because she's afraid her mother will yell at her. But because she cannot reason how, on earth, she will ever "get all of this paint out of my mouth."

I loved that line. And I thought then, as I do now, that I understood her quite clearly. That even though I haven't lived her life or endured her tragedies, I knew (know) precisely what she meant.

And yesterday, driving home, those words popped into my head for the first time in months. And try as I might, I couldn't shake them out again.

Instead, I thought of all those moments I bit my tongue when I most needed to speak. Those times when I stared blankly at the world, my insides shaking with words.

And I imagined myself, as this girl, opening my mouth and trying — quite futilely — to clean the paint from my tongue even as it continues to flow through me.

If I were an artist: this is what I would draw.

If I could show you how I felt, this is what you would see.

flight nebraska

the great pheasants opened from
tall grass and rolled into the
sky. 20 feet. 30 feet.
they would have seen there were
no clouds. the grass was a
better place to hide.

down and down between the blades.
into greens and greys with no
air sound nowhere.
hide between, but never above.

ds

new poem looking for its name in the mist

In the long storm I reached
Across and touched her
Folded arm. She was unafraid,
And asleep. The thunder shot all
Around us. Rain slipped in
Along the wooden windowsill. I
Thought of the sea - the wind
There - a gale riding a small
Ship. I wondered on Phoenicians.

The water is never quiet; it moves.
Moves doesn't silent.

I heard a telephone ring in the
Thunder, but it was only thunder.
Then I looked up from my
Thoughts. Our community of animals
Had gathered around me with
Prayers in their eyes. My
Head got quiet. We shook out
The storm alone.

ds

squiggly dashboard revisited

yes I understand what I've come to understand is
that words and not words don't mix. computer's not
made of words. internet not made of words.
programs not made of words:

computers always square, poems always round.

ever the two shall quarrel in between.
and then you and I and them end up
in between (which is where we were born).
my poems on my inside (I am round) dislike my
squares on the outside. inside I am a great
poet. much better than this. outside I am
social worker. group homes. silver car. no
house. living with parents at my age. wasn't invited to my
10 year high school reunion. see all the squares?
inside I am great poet. you too. we're so round inside.

I make dreams in my head when I have a house I will
buy this internet and write well and put it here.
this comes soon I hope. everyone is tired of this.
I have no center now. off the spindle. I make more
promises: dearest everybody that doesn't read this place,
I will make good poems in my house, and put them here.

see - now I've put the world into both its boxes.
and don't understand what either is.

ds

क्लुत्तेरेड Dashboard

If any of you understands my problem

Please send help right away

I have this place of words

sitting on my dashboard

right next to my portfolio

when I attempt to create a new post

I recieve a message from beyond my reach

It says: You are doing something wrong and may not create in this portfolio anymore

And I am attempting to be artistic and perhaps a bit poetic

hoping you will recognise my NEED to express myself in some way

But I would really like to play in my own sandbox for a few minutes

Does anyone understand this? Please?

Written Ten Years Ago About This Time

plastic utopia: thoughts on the
deification of pop culture icons; what
happens when push button salvation does
not work—written the night prior to
princesS dianA’s internment

i

(i might as
well be walking
on the sun)

it was started

yet nothing
ever really
happened

we looked for
heroes & we realized
that we didn’t have any

so we made
our own celluloid
deities

we looked
to the one-
eyed-picture-
box for our hollow
push-button
salvation

(all the while
giving praises
to the altars of
the peacock &
the eye)

we were given
flawed philosophies
that we lapped up
like mongrel
stray dogs
which we rebroadcast
as if we were self-appointed
stool pigeon demagogues

we needed leaders
we got harlequins &
lawyers

we need a messiah
we got cheers

we needed knowledge
we go fragglE rock

we needed heroes
we got williS & arnolD

we needed comfort (&what
the hell) it came through—
i miss johN boY & ol’ half pint

we sat in its ominous glow
playing paC-maN sucking down
carbonated beverages
& devouring greasy
reprocessed bovine carcass

we read the tabloids &
let our collective minds become saturated
with nothing-information
& new fangled
yellow journalism

our eyes were filled with pictures of
beautiful people with platinum hair
artificially sculpted bodies with no visible scaring
small noses & perfect caffeine stained teeth

(man, we got took)

ii

our knowledge was
doled out in
thirty second sound bites cleverly
spun by those in charge except
we never figured out who that was

iii

it was their fault
it was your fault
it was his fault
it was mom’s fault
it was dad’s fault
it was falwelL’s fault
it was jiM & tammY fayE’s fault
it was the see-eye-aee’s fault
it was the effa-bee-eye’s fault
it was coL. nortH’s fault
it was some conglomerate-that-took-our-souls-in-the-middle-of-the-night’s fault
it was reagaN’s fault
it was nobody’s fault
it was somebody’s fault
it most certainly was NOT my fault

maybe hensoN had something to with it
i always said that damn frog was going
to be the end of us all

that blasted rubiX cubE certainly didn’t
help matters either

we were doomed

(we were more worried
about ring-around-the-collar
then our preservation)

why didn’t we see this coming

we were too busy worrying about
where the beef was

we gratefully took what
they fed us & drank it
up through prefabricated
plastic straws

iv

our minds rotted & decayed
we still “don’t know diddley”

BUT! we’re in charge now
(haha) move over let us through

to hell with them

fight ‘em
knock ‘em down from
their overbearing righteous
high horses
let ‘em know who’s boss

(ah… a fantasy)

v

(a reality)

instead we just drift
looking searching
but finding nothing

looking

searching

nothing

vi

what does our plastic-cyclops
god say ask it!
turn it on!

hurry! hurry!

maybe the answers
can be found there

(i have a sudden need for
push-button salvation)

why the sudden silence

push the button
PUSH THE BUTTON

nothing! silence!
it can’t be!

the godboX is dead
the godboX is dead
the godboX is dead

!la godboX es morte!

no salvation?
no hope?
no…

nothing?

copyright 2007 DWC

the last eggshells here in this place 6/21

last day at my job, longest day of the
year, and almost six years at
this place.

I am waisting time.

it is the longest day of the year, the sun will
shine forever on today. this is
a little longer than on most
days.

I could talk about horrible and things I've
had to do at this job, I could fill poems of
it. I have filled poems of it. but that would make
it seem like I learned something.
no. I'm going to do something very similar at
somewhere else. I learn nothing.
different but the same. and
they didn't even throw me a party. almost
six years and no party. there was a
Dr. that was here for like 2 years and she got a
party. I came in at the end of the day and
ate some of her pizza. shit.

everything is off the walls.
in my mind, a party could have
redeemed this place and me in
my head. I think I will drink a whole
bottle of champagne tonight and
have a giant cigar. I will have a good
dinner. the stars will
whirl around and land
on some new fortune for me
after the sun returns to the
short days.


ds

spont

this is the eggshells (just have drank)

And now, no more family members to
Exploit - I have created everyone I can
Imagine. A family tree hangs in our office. The
Immediate mother is dead. There is no
Reason to invent aunts. One uncle
Hangs. But he is fleshed out, and I have finished a
Bottle of scotch with this thought in my head...
All the family is over.

All the family is over. Now we invent new.
You - you invent new.
This place is beyond cousins. Invent
Fish. Invent lines. Invent elk.
Invent looking up from the marshes with a
Mouth full of reeds and wet
Food. See that I am chasing you.
I look for you and future that is
In your gut. I am thirst, hungry.
You beautiful. I can eat you for a week.

Tomorrow morning I am to
Fish - with human on the edge of
Water. The world gets small.

I jig and spin.
I reel and jerk.
I accurate.

(we don't catch what we eat I'm drunk it's past late
night looks in the window no more wind I no good
at fishing this is the long day tomorrow I work six days
of work one of rest I rest much longer than one
day) forever.

The family
Rests.

The family
Rests beneath us.
Dust settling on country. Gravestones and
Windowsills. Blow in the spring. Go in the
Fall. Our back is acres.

Please remember
I have no future and know only what I
Remember. The night is
Just outside.
Everything else is
Under and under. Leaves
Grass
Compost
Happy
Worms.

ds - from the bottom of scotch.

Rant Gone Bad

(an apology) I have posted this three other places. I'm feeling manic right now. So, well...

So, you want to learn to write. You want to get to the marrow of it all? You want get that voice on paper and out of your head? I understand, completely. I do, too. But I think I've gotten pretty close to giving up. That doesn't mean that I can't help teach writing. Matter of fact, that is a simmering dream of mine: to teach writing, but there's a problem with that: "you can't teach some how to write." You either got it, or you don't. I know that was bad grammar, maybe even cliched, but it was effective. See, that's writing.

I have a voice in my head. Loud, high pitched and slightly inebriated. The kind of slurred voice one has after three or four vodka tonics, or high balls, or maybe some screwdrivers. Its an elfin voice, my particular bug-a-boo of a voice is Capote. I don't know why that elfin, good-time boy took residence in my head. I wish he would leave. Whenever I write about writing while typing I hear Capote blearily say"that's not writing, that's typing." Oh, I'm sorry, my fault, I used an adverb: "blearily." Sign of bad writing. Stay away from adverbs, says so in Stunk and White, the bible for writers. (An aside: it is my opinion that "the little grey book" aka The Elements of Style by William Strunk and E.B. White is the only book you need to be a writer and pages 70-85 are the fifteen most important pages you'll ever need to read. Those 21 rules are gospel and commandment all rolled into one.) He's right, Capote is, it really isn't writing, it is indeed typing. I can't write by hand. The words tumble out too quickly. My hand can't keep up, so my fingers do what they can.

Where ever I go I have paper and pen: in my blue bag I take to work, in my desk (an oblong green sketch pad that I have written in intermittently since Houston, I had high hopes for that one, but alas it didn't pan out), I have small moleskin notebook, too. Today, I was nippin and tuckin the writing journals and I found one that I liked, I almost bought it with the intention of "writing in it," wouldn't of worked. I'd of written something, but then that pour journal would end up in a corner somewhere dusty. The start of the last sentence "I'd of" is left over from my time in the Appalachians. That's straight Appalachian right there. "I'd of..." bad writing? I don't know. What do I know about good or bad writing.

I work in a bookstore. So, I guess I might know good writing when I see it. I don't. I know what I like and what I don't. I don't know if what I like is good writing. How can I make that decision? Who am I?

You know who started this thought in my head? These thoughts, I should say, and no, it wasn't Capote. It was Tim O'Brien. His book The Things They Carried always beats me over the head. What amazing stuff. I wish I had a thimble of his talent, I don't not even close. I'm a wack job next to him. His book would be my textbook in my writing class, well that and the "little grey book." There would be no tests, but there would be writing. My how there would be writing. My students write until their hands bled. They would hate me. I would make them go deep. Deep into places they wouldn't talk about. I break them. They'd hate me. But they'd survive. They'd write it. They'd have no choice.

I freely give my opinion when I'm reading someone's work. I'm not sure they appreciate it. I should probably stop giving my opinion. My opinion doesn't count for much any way. I'm no critic, I'm an unfulfilled writer. There are shelves and shelves of books that tell me how to write, how to put a word, a thought, an idea on paper. Write that novel THIS year. Here is the proper way to write a poem (oh, please, tell me). I zoned through that section today I should never zone through the how-to write section at 0600, because I brood. Just like I shouldn't zone in the cookbooks after 1600, I dwell on the covers and get hungry and disappointed that I can't cook like that.

So, you want to write? You want to be a writer? Why? What is it that you want? You want to be a writer? Fine, go write. Go ahead. I'll be here, waiting. I'll just go read the master Tim O'Brien. I'll go read my writing class textbook.


DWC

The Father, The Son

my son will never amount
to anything

forty and bald
he spends most nights
locked in his room, emerging
like gregor samsa
(only at feeding time)

and i know what you're
thinking: what does a
dirty old man know
about kafka?

well i'll tell you:
he was miserable
too

peter's mother gave him
to me that summer before
the year of continuity

when everything changed


she was a pretty
thing, smart as a whip,
distributing pamphlets
like some girls collect
diamonds

when i left her, swollen
belly and all, she called
me a coward

said that those papers
were like firewood and
should've been burnt


he was crawling
the first time
i saw him

it made me sick,
watching him,
having him see
me

crawling too

and there,
with blood on
my hands he
sat on my lap,
fussy as all
get out


she never forgave me
for leaving

some nights
i'd wake the whole house
with my screaming

i could feel her lying
tense next to me, still as a
body

i'd scream louder, she
told me, until she
touched my hands and

"shhhh," she'd say, "shhhh"

and in the morning
jonah would
come in, jumping,

as though there was never
a battle

to begin


you can take a life
but you cannot
unlive it

union fees, mowed lawns
groceries and whistles and
dusty books you'll never
read

maps you've marked with
all the places you'd like to go

you will grow old,
i promise you
and you will hate
yourself for it

i became old in the dead
of sleep, waking to find
my son creeping over my legs,
no more promises,
stealing my pabst blue
from the buzzing fridge

"stupid old drunk," i hear
him say

swallowing the ribbon

but i am not drunk, peter,
not now

i am watching you

i am watching what
you have become

I am Peter

well thirdworst - you know me... life through contradictions and all that. I think it's mostly because of the Gemini thing. I mean, I don't believe in it, but it means a lot to me. so anyway... I wrote this in response - thanks.

I am Peter


I am Peter. Well, that’s not my name, but
I am Peter. I had a bag of Chee-tos and scrambled
Eggs for breakfast. Last night I drank two of my
Old man’s beers. Now I will tell you why I
Hate the world.

Everyone always said that I should do something.
Everyone always said that I should do something.
I got both kinds of grades in school. I liked a
Couple of girls who didn’t like me. I got in
Fights because I talked slow and most
Everyone hated me. Then
School was over and I didn’t want any more
School. My mom coughed a lot then
She died. Everyone was so damn sad and
My uncles yelled at my grandma. My aunt
And cousins from New York New York sent me
A card that I couldn’t read because they write
So sloppy. You would think for once they could
Print or something. Everybody in my
Family writes ugly. That’s why I don’t write.

My old man works a lot but he tries to take me to my job some
Mornings because I hate the bus and I complain about
It a lot.

My old man works for the union and makes houses. The
Union sucks. They take all his money just for nothing
And he gets nothing out of it. He could make a hundred
Dollars more a week but they won’t hire without the stupid
Union. I hate the union. I’ll never work for the
Union. My old man sleeps in his chair every night.

When I look everything has a glare. It’s all dull and fuzzy.
It gives me headaches but if I breathe through my
Mouth it doesn’t hurt as bad. I hate work. But I have to
Go because I get paid money so I can buy something
Somebody told me about. I think I have insurance, so
I don’t have to pay to see the Dr. or if I fall or something.
I hate all the customers. I made the store give me a new
Name tag because I didn’t want anybody to know my name
Because I hate them. I wish they could buy everything
On the computer so they wouldn’t bother me. Then I could just
Get a job on the computer. My uncle that lives with us
has a job on the computer. We used to have a dog.

There. That’s why I hate everything. I want
Everybody to shut-up. And if I said the rest of
It, then you’d just tell someone else. And they
Wouldn’t give a damn but they’d tell someone
Else then everyone would know. And everybody
Would want to look in my window and talk to me.
Well I just want the shade down and everything fuzzy
And to drink my old man’s beer after he’s asleep and
The warm world quiet outside the door outside the door.

-ds

It's an oldie... I don't write much anymore, sorry...

Any input is welcome... I'm trying to get back into being creative and my brain has become quite rusty indeed.
----
Stranger

He smelled of cigarettes
And laundry detergent
And of memories…

Watching the sun set
From the loading dock,
Painting pictures with words.

Late nights spend holding Coffee,
Watching a blue screen
Through a drugged haze.

Early morning risings
Chilled with dew,
Walking through puddles.

He smelled of meetings,
Friendships, and blurry-eyed
Good-byes of another time.

And he was just some stranger
Who happened to smell
Like memories…

The Ride Home

Swollen brains, adrenaline buzz.

Desolate city warehouse district
abandoned storefronts, hand-painted signs, "we bay and sale'
broken glass, flat tires,

derelict cars, people and buildings.
City stench

Refinery tanks, rusty and foreboding fences.

Young man, survivor, driving him home.

Young man survivor;

The fall, the moves, the abandonment, the poverty, heartache
heart ache, the endless cycle of new home, school, best friend-leaving.

Single teen-aged mother, two mismatched shoes on her feet, she found them in the warehouse dumpster.The shoes, not the sons, they fit.

All day long, they face their death, riding the Griffin, holding hands, silent screams end in thunderous laughter, SURVIVORS.

Passing silvery tombstones now that shimmer like minnows in a still ocean during a full moon. The endless sea of silver minnow tombstones.

Young man survivor rides his bike past minnows and fences over broken glass and sink hole streets ; to go to school, to get to work, to survive.

She asks him if he is afraid when he rides late at night past the minnows.

He wonders what their lives were like and what finally took them, he is not afraid.

Taking young man survivor home.

the whitewash

there is nothing
i can say to
make you
understand

the boxes
the intangible
loneliness

of lysol, white
walls

and jackets

crammed into
boxes

like st. helen

there is no
excitement
here

only anxiety
& fingers cut
to the bone

and the knowledge
that outside
everything is
the same

that it is always

the same.

linoleum & dust

peter stood at 5'6
a stout thing
with little legs

balding, too,
(adding insult to injury)
and worn plastic
glasses that slid
down his nose

his fingers were
thick, and round, with
nails trimmed by
teeth at
laser precision (just
before the blood
line bursts)

i watched those
fingers drag
the red bicyclette
across the machine's
eye

head down
glasses retreating

he stood watching
the customer bag his own
groceries

not so much refusing
to help, like bartleby,
but rather like a soldier
without the legs

to run


[shoulders caved in,
eyes that camoflage
with linoleum &
dust]


"sir, i'll need you to swipe
your card again"

he interrupts his own
quiet, palm on
pad where everyone
enters their secrets

(kids birthdays,
high school graduation,
virginity lost)

standing there, watching,
my stomach re-invented
itself

thinking of my nephews
and all i hope they never
become

it's not the checkout
or the employee i.d.
engraved by some
corporate entity
that bothers me

but that look in
peter's eyes — those
eyes blurred through
dirty lenses —
when he finally looked

up

(and then down again)

oh, peter,

i imagine once upon a
time you, too,

stomped on your shadow
& made your mother a valentine,
scrawling your name
with the sort of pride that only
a five-year-old knows

this is not what i want
for them

that look, peter,

that look

i see it, again, exiting the store

the man waiting for the bus
the old women hobbling through parked cars
the people who gather and honk

(demanding they hurry along)

it's everywhere, peter,
isn't it?

that look

i see it in me, too,
slamming the trunk
lid

staring into
eyes i scarcely
recognize

opening the
car door
and slouching
into my seat

as if becoming

(again)

a slave to

myself

©thirdworstpoetinthegalaxy, 2007

two old poems

the infinite
(after reading “mescaline” by ginsberG)

i will wait
& watch &
contemplate
think lofty
thoughts &
be a revolutionary
(like giovannI)
i’ll put some
mardI graS beads
in chrisT’s hands
& put a few around
his neck i’ll take a kinG
cakE & put it at his
feet that will be my sacrifice
(that is my offering of penitence)

i’ll stand in front
of a mirror shirtless &
obscene i’ll observe
myself see my stomach
(pink with birthmark) move
as i breathe i’ll see my unshaven face
& my blue/grey eyes my nose
(it fits my face) chin
(genetically dimpled)

these things i’ll see & contemplate
for good or indifferent
i’ll take them i suppose
because from what i understand
a beggar is loathe if he is a chooser

eight haiku


writing to clean me
poetry: bitch of bitches
mind vacant & pure

thoughts of happiness
ideas gone to a bad end
mind-prison: lock-down

mental graffiti
rumors of greatness abound
mind's eye: blank canvas

ideals: destructed
thoughts stricken from the record
poet! take your stand

silence deafening
prisoner to poetry
not wanting freedom

written word unleashed
literature uncorked free
expression: still born

from my hand words flow
writing equals free thinking
poetic soul scream

out! free! not silenced
forget your fear be alive
be now satisfied

DWC 1999

another side of the animal

Yes

Yes Jesus walked on water.
Robes above wet.
The crest bowed.

It was shining
From the arc.

I watched on his knees
Him sit,
The weather heavy
On.

- Short breath into
Drive wind.

And press fingers against the
Coat of water.

And fought the jackal gods of egypt.



The blue virgin

The blue virgin,
Heavy with God
Weight in the desert. A
Sky full of clouds. The starless.
And the small deus came out
In a red wind.

This Jesus, blue from mom
And cold, opened without sight, dark over
His eyes. The weeping crossed his
Chest. The trembling moved him
Down her lap, into other hands.

Lions snorted at the soft god.
Some men stood in a ring.
Morning took its time to come.

Repeat twice and end.



Whale Song

The red. The sound,
Distant, sound of bread
Falling behind the boat. The
Heavy exhale when the whale comes
Up, grabs sobbing crust, dips. You there,
Breaking bread against the sunset,
Fish bleed on the deck behind
You and two streams run under your
Feet. They rill slow and
Sink in the water. Red sunset blurring too.
Red water red gunwales and red
Kissed by the glare
When she surfaces, grabs sobbing crust,
Dips.

The boat is always ahead.
The bow and keel nodding windy.
The whale catching rye and
Breathes of thick red water.

She followed the boat until she rubbed her
Belly going down. Until she felt
A breeze in her eyes. Until she washed in the
Shallow lapping on the stones. And I am
Sure that bread was dropped
Up the beach up the hills
Into the sky where gulls got heavy with it.
The boat does not know
Water from sky.

But what sea journey has
Become a tired whale on shores?
Yours or mine? We are all the same, and
Have followed ourselves to here and man.

all for now. have good weekends.

ds

Call for Submission Calls

I know, I know. I started this blasted thing, and I've yet to curse it with an actual post.

But this unpacking jazz is serious business, and I'm a bit overworked in that regard. It's 1:30 a.m. for crying out loud, and I'm only just preparing for bed.

But I digress.

All to say if I'd like to create a "link list" here that links to poetry magazines, journals and the like that accept submissions — or, more particularly, the exact page that offers the nuts and bolts of submission information.

Feel free to e-mail me any useful links you have; I hope to put something together in the next few days, though we can add/subtract from the list at any time.

as promised, promises.

recents...


The Work in the World

Me with my body, and you with
Yours; we will make each other happy when the
Wind pushes through the window.

It was a long day, and I worked below the
Trees, making the ground new. I have carved a
Channel from the creek to make our work easier this
Summer. It is not all the water we will need, but
It will help. And I could hear the farmer already
Across the woods cutting furrows. His engine was
Louder than the birds. I will meet him
Soon, and we will have friends. Tomorrow the morels
Will be up like we expected.

At noon I sat on the ground, already tired. I
Thought of you. I drank water and saw the
Dirt on my hands. Dirt makes the shovel
Easier. Here it is, before June, and I am already wishing for
Help. But tonight will be cool again.
The wind will blow.

I came to you early this afternoon, with supper still
An hour away. My excuse was to water the animals again, to
Save you the trouble. I wish my whole life to do
Small things for you. When the wood is cured I will
Make you a table. I have spent good
Money to buy you plants that will flower each year, and the
Seeds you brought from your old lawn are coming up. See,
This place will always be beautiful.

At the end of night is the place I cannot take you. The pans
Hang clean in the kitchen. Everything will
Be under sleep. But my eyes will be in the field, in the
Rustle of life that's always alive. It will be a giant
In my ears. It will move around us and with us. It will
Replace us when we have forgotten it, when we are gone to the
Flowers rising up from beneath.


Continued Studies

The grass is cut short, and will not lie down
Against the sound of the wind.
But I can barely see this. It's after eight. It's
Almost nine. The world is tired with me.

Every sound in my head is the same sound. The
Trees and voices and streetlights are all
Jazz. The key changes once a minute as it stretches out.
The drummer keeps getting slower and slower. He's
Switched to brushes. The trumpet has no mute and is
Blowing from center. Piano is water
Faucet. I see empty tables and empty bottles and
Slow people dancing. The music sits around
And comes to me slow.

All this evening I know nothing. Thinking is for the
Edges. I'm in the center, with trumpet. Look
Outside again. Dark enough not to see. People
And the edges are gone. I'm right up by the spindle, made a
Cushion of rotation.


Sequence

The usual somber and quiet, then all that
Ending. A low plane over the woods. Two
Propellers pulling the wind over shape
Of the plane, and doing it loud.
All the movement in the top of the woods, stirring
Down into the low. Everything alive knows it
Without understanding.

The sound streaks away like faster
And faster, to where nothing can catch it.
Then goes away, and is gone. And last
Of the wind goes too. Resume somber. Resume
Quiet. All things back to life in normal.

In night, the always chance of rain comes.
It comes in on drizzle, and tightens to a pour.
Every moving bends against it, but shakes it off in
The hour before dawn. Then only dark and quiet,
When all the meanings are invisible.


that's all for now... sorry thirdworst about breaking your pg-13 rule.

ds

Welfare Mary (My fav)

This evolved in my mind more than 10 years ago; it is still my favorite and never published before so here goes:

WELFARE MARY


Mary was a welfare mother

Joseph was a kind hearted man, even though the kid wasn't his, he stayed with her.

Jesus was born in a skid row, cardboard shack on the darkest night of the year.

apologies and introduction

had intentions of posting only on the eggshells of
spontaneous and new, but have been out of
eggs (and new). and thought to post
something recent
instead. then lugged a disc across two computers,
but now faced with incompatible invisible
formats. I understand almost nothing.

so... apologies. when I can understand I
will post recent. I have beautiful things
somewhere that I cannot
find. surely this has merit. misplaced makes you
feel human.

and am now ashamed. have written about
invisible difficulties. I do not believe in
difficulties. but invisible is important.
so apologies again. even this I intended to be
short, but have come to long. all this with angry in
my legs and headache in my
teeth. so I will go and go. with luck soon and
soon I will understand one thing.

now off the eggshells...

ds

to the good life

i have a need to
disengage

to turn off
to go blank
(for a while)

too much reality
is a bad thing

& trust me,
there is too
much reality right

now

i read an article
in a magazine
recently about group
suicide in japan &
how-- in some weird
logic-- suicide is almost
noble

made me want to cry as
i whistled "suicide is
painless..."

the country stopped
for three whole
days & became blank faced
when some madman shot
two dozen plus seven on
a college campus in old
dominion

that kept our
attention for three days
(& that was good for us)
until some overweight
washed-up actor screamed
invective at his daughter
over a cell phone

honestly, i think we
were more shocked by that

troops are dying in places
i can't spell for
causes i don't quite understand

& others are killing
in the name of gods
that i have never heard of
& couldn't pronounce if i tried
(not that i want to, mind you)

the hand carts are cheap
this season, its
the hell that is costly

(hey brother, can you spare a
10 spot, i need a gallon of gas)

my credit is
almost maxed
yet, i need more
more more
more

i'd like the gold plated
cart with platinum deucie-deuce
rims

can i get that
with a seven year
(itch) loan

it'll stop
eventually--
some day

& the piper will come
with hand out
collecting on our
past dues

DWC 2007

Virtual Girl

Every morning she boots up, power in her veins.

Link to link, site to site, commenting along the way.

Reports, taxes and clients, will have to wait.

Virtual girl

a poem in pencil/a work in progress

i marked the poem
with the only thing
i had available--

a scrap of
toilet paper--

i folded it over &
fit it into the
binding of
the book

to mark the place
where eternity was
explained &
defined

it seems ironic
in a strangely ironic
world that the
symbol for eternity
& infinity is
a dead 8 rolled on
its side

DWC copyright 2007

In the Beginning

this page
intentionally left blank

for
poets &

word thieves

for empty-toothed words,
for smoke-filled words
for words arranged

like p's and q's
illogically reversed

twice before

repeating

Blech. OK, so if it's not a silly haiku, I'm a bit rusty when it comes to poetic verse. And I won't even claim this page was crafted to get me back into the habit — it may very well be too late for that.

Rather, I had the grand idea for an open poetry forum after a poet friend left a few comments on my blog that were, by far, insanely better than my original posts. Seemed a shame to let such words shuffle off into the ether.

Hence "Numb Benign" — a fairly simple page to which any number of folks can post. If you're interested in co-authoring this joint, hook your tin can up to mine and let me know. I hate to resort to cliches but, well... the more, the merrier.

And while I don't want to let my true schoolmarm colors shine through, there are a few rules:

• Keep the content PG-13 (i.e. safe enough for folks to check from work computers without incurring the wrath of Big Brother)
• Feel free to re-post any poems originally on your "other" page to this one — maybe use this as an opportunity to increase your readership. If that's your thing.
  
• If you wish to repost anything you see here, please ask the author for permission first — because we're all about giving credit where it's due.
• Keep personal details to a minimum — particularly if you know me (if you know me, you know why. If you don't know me... then you have nothing to worry about).

Or in the words or my high school study hall teacher: WHEN IN DOUBT, DON'T.

But then again, she called me by the wrong name for four years straight (regardless of the fact that the roster was correct), so she may not be the best guide in terms of etiquette. But you get the idea.

Also, while this is designed primarily for "new" creative material, feel free to post the occasional poem or two from your favorite wordsmith — just make sure all the proper credits are there.

Numb Benign may disappear if activity is too infrequent, non-existent, or just all-out embarrassing.

And on that note... pencils up.

You may begin.